


World's End

by rebelxxwaltz



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Chosen, Post-Series, Summer of Giles 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7056955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A degenerate son of Chaos and a war-weary Watcher walk into a bar. Will they emerge as friends or enemies? Written for Summer of Giles 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World's End

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Summer of Giles 2016, and it is the first non-drabble piece of BtVS fic I have written in something like five years. 
> 
> The story was born out of a prompt created by Littleotter73 and myself after we chose to collaborate for this posting day. We each wrote our own unique story within the parameters set, hopefully creating a fun comparative reading experience. 
> 
> The prompt is best described as follows: Post Series, Giles and Ethan meet at a pub. Which path will their friendship take in the aftermath of the apocalypse? The pub must be the World's End in Camden where rebelxxwaltz, il_mio_capitano, and littleotter73 met up for our London 2012 adventures. Oh, and Ethan has to have a goatee.
> 
> I mean, Ethan with a goatee, how can you go wrong? Don't forget to check out littleotter73's version of this prompt, which was also posted here today!

 

\------

There’s a lingering bitter smokiness hanging in the pub air. 

 

He knows it’s the filmy second hand fog of several dozen cigarettes being expelled from twice the number of abused lungs, but he can’t help recalling the harsh and choking ozone of black magic gone wrong. Both things could be deadly in their time, but the low grade buzz of nicotine was utter child’s play when compared against the addictive full-bodied orgasmic tremor of occult buildup and release. People had been known to damn the consequences of both, himself most assuredly included. 

 

Rolling his neck, Ethan Rayne draped one arm along the back of the battered and faded banquette and waited. Ethan had never been known for his patience, but when it came to Rupert Giles he could admit a frustrating willingness to grant allowances. The edge of his left Armani brogue toed against the recess in the faded pub carpet beside the decades-disused fireplace. Hence, his reluctant presence here on an otherwise pleasant Wednesday afternoon. 

 

Ethan had always liked this pub. Rupert hated it, even back in his ‘Ripper’ days. That was part of why Ethan had insisted upon it as the location for their meeting. That, plus the close proximity to tube, taxi stand, and myriad other pubs— Ethan expected to have need for one or all within the hour, depending on the outcome of this little tete a tete. There was something about this place, a mystical unease or perhaps a thinness of the walls between dimensions, which was ideal for making a natural born Watcher feel uncomfortable and an erstwhile agent of Chaos feel right at home. 

 

He preferred this small and outdated front room of the pub which faced the Camden High Street at the busy junction where it transformed into Kentish Town Road. Beams of sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating dust motes and lending a whimsical, eldritch air. 

 

Or maybe that was indigestion from the shoddy ale…

 

When you return to a place numerous time over a period of many years, it can play tricks with the memory. There was a part of Ethan, buried in a shallow grave and ripe to rise as a creatureof the night at any given moment, that felt like a disaffected twenty year old the moment he’d walked through the door. Equal measures of resentment and exhilaration bubbled at the base of his spine, and he felt the corner of his mouth turn ever so slightly upward above a neatly trimmed goatee. 

 

Beyond the maze of mismatched barstools and disarranged tables, a familiar figure darkened the door. 

 

The silhouette of Rupert Giles was not that of the straight-backed librarian of recent years, nor the bravado-soaked frame of the forsaken delinquent from days long past. What Ethan’s eyes beheld was the outline and subsequently the face of a defeated man, something broken and aimless and lost, and Ethan felt an unfamiliar sensation twisting in his guts. He refused to acknowledge that he was capable of emotions such as pity or concern, preferring to chalk it up to disappointment that his longstanding friend and adversary was not at full strength and therefore less worthy of the effort required to thwart him. 

 

In this apparent state, thwarting Giles would prove less satisfying for Ethan than kicking a three-legged puppy. 

 

“Hello, old boy.” A neat row of teeth flashed briefly with an odd but characteristic blend of sincerity and devilment. 

 

Rupert Giles gripped the back of the rickety chair across from Ethan with one hand, appearing reluctant to pull the piece of furniture into position and sit. Perhaps he merely realized he’d be needing a drink before long. 

 

“Ethan. You just had to choose this place, didn’t you?” He’d said ‘place’ like it was a four letter word. 

 

“Tsk tsk Rupert. Familiarity may breed contempt but at least you already know the beer is piss. Sometimes it’s wise to stick with what you know.” 

 

There was a hint of Ripper in the answering gaze Ethan received, indicating that the double entendres had not escaped his companion’s notice. “Scotch, I think. my last experience with beer was somewhat less than satisfactory.” 

 

Ethan snorted. “Spoken like the crated up museum piece you truly are.” 

 

After receiving his dubiously sterilized tumbler of amber liquid from the barman with a face full of piercings, Giles settled into his chair and sipped from what looked like a healthy double. 

 

Halfway through his second ale, Ethan was filled with restless energy. He couldn’t say whether it was the pub, the beer, or the company. Perhaps all three. The sixth sense he had cultivated both by accident and design throughout the years was screaming out to the wide open pathways of sorcery. 

 

“Right. So why am I here? The night is young and so am I, which is more than I can say for you. I’d prefer to keep this rendezvous short.” 

 

Frowning, Rupert twisted the short piece of glassware with his elegant fingers, regarding Ethan with thoughtful contempt. “I’m checking up on you, of course. It seemed a prudent venture after the… after all that has happened.” 

 

If he was going to beat around the bush, Ethan certainly wouldn’t gratify him by making it easy. He affected a gasp, straightening one set of fingers and pressing them to the edge of his lips in mock surprise. “Did something happen? I must have missed the bulletin. Tuesday nights are snooker club after all.” 

 

“Oh don’t be such a tosser, Ethan.” 

 

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spat, remembering the treatment he’d received upon their last few meetings. It wasn’t that he felt his behaviour hadn’t warranted a certain degree of… reaction… if anything Ethan understood the give and take of the universe. It was just the principle of the thing, a matter of faintly clinging honor. “And consider your bluff called, Ripper. Even Emily bloody Post and her pocket book of etiquette could tell you that a phone call would have sufficed if that was your entire design.”

 

Deflecting, Giles took a longer drink, head tilting backwards to reveal a surprisingly scruffy under-chin area. “Fine. I thought perhaps we could ease into it, but you leave me with little choice. I am here to offer you a job.” 

 

Genuine laughter. It was something Ethan could remember engaging in, probably even in this very pub, in bleak days that the passage of time had cast as carefree and innocent. He could remember laughing at something stupid Randall said, probably a lewd remark while Deirdre was in the loo, and laughing and laughing with Philip while Rupert rolled his eyes and told them all to grow up. The cracked and cloudy brewery mirrors of shared history cast a murky image, streaming through the folded edges of the space time continuum to reveal an eerily similar scene in the present day. 

 

Ethan could barely catch his voice, tears prickling at the corners of his dark eyes as the chuckles continued to reverberate through his chest cavity like an unexpected blast wave. “You what? Offer me a job where? The Council is gone, Sunnydale is destroyed, along with your pathetic excuse for a life. Not even your precious Slayer holds the clout she once did, just one of dozens, with the younger models ready to spring up and take her place as soon as the luck runs out— “ 

 

Rupert’s hand shot across the table that lay between them, deceptively strong grip crumpling the smooth iridescent fabric of Ethan’s shirt front. “Don’t you speak of Buffy in such a way. In fact, don’t speak of her at all. If not for her, we would all be dead several times over including your worthless, bothersome, opportunistic carcass.” 

 

“Bothersome! Dear me Ripper, such a dismissive attitude toward your oldest friend! So tell me. If I’m such a nuisance, why are we sitting here right now?” 

 

Slowly releasing his grip on Ethan, Giles settled back into his chair and demurely adjusted the glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose. “We lost a lot of good people at the Council. And at Sunnydale. We need all the help we can get.” 

 

Tilting his head, Ethan reached into his pocket for the rare indulgence of a cigarette. The antique lighter made a satisfying ‘thunk’ as he snapped it shut and allowed the smoke to curl through the sunset tinted air between them. “The evil was defeated. The threat is gone. Why on earth would you willingly entangle yourself with someone of my… reputation?” 

 

With a level gaze, the Watcher regarded him thoughtfully. “You know better than anyone that evil is never truly undone. Demons, vampires, untold deleterious forces, they’ll regroup and find their way back soon enough. We need to be prepared, and your specialized knowledge would be of use to us.” The last part was delivered as grudgingly as any back-handed compliment could be. 

 

“Us?” 

 

“We’re rebuilding the Council. Our group from Sunnydale and anyone else we can contact.” 

 

“Ah, so _Buffy_ put you up to this. I always knew she had a bit of a soft spot for me. Let’s face it, that slaying siren of yours likes her men dangerous! Why, if I were twenty years younger. Bloody hell, even ten—“ 

 

“Don’t.” The menacing tone conveyed far more than the quiet utterance itself. 

 

Ethan could have pushed it and possibly ended up with a fist in his face, but he was wearing a new shirt and he’d only just been for an expensive facial two days ago. No use wasting all that hard work… 

 

“What sort of job?” 

 

Relaxing visibly, Giles steepled his fingers. “Consulting work. On a contract basis. A concept you’re rather familiar with as I recall.” His eyebrow raised, doubtless in reference to Ethan’s past willingness to work for whomsoever provided monetary compensation along with the best chance to unleash mayhem in vulnerable locales.

 

Narrowing his eyes, Ethan deliberated and ran his mind over the worst case scenarios. “I won’tbe treated like your dog.” 

 

Rupert’s answering chuckle was a bewildering surprise. “Oh, Ethan. We both know you would make an awful pet. I’d sooner rehabilitate a mangy stray. Give me at least some small measure of credit.”

 

“If this is your pitifully transparent idea of a ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ gambit, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” The animal analogies were beginning to wear on Ethan’s nerves, but there was really no better way to say it.

 

“It isn’t. I can have a contract for retainer drawn up and sent over if you’d care to review it.” 

 

Looking over at this man, a person he’d known since he was merely a teenager, Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated. Here in the hazy timeless embrace of this pub, thereceptors of wickedness tingled. He felt a vast strangeness, and wondered whether this place might exist atop a low-grade mystical convergence after all. 

 

He could choose to be ‘good,’ he knew that. It didn’t even mean he had to be _nice,_ which was likely to happen on the same day hell froze over. But maybe he shouldn’t joke about that… 

 

In the end, he knew there wasn’t really a choice. Not one for _him_ to make, anyway.

 

“Alright Rip. Here’s what we’ll do.” He fished in his pocket for a pound coin, holding it up to the light and turning it between thumb and forefinger. The dull golden cast of the metal disc seemed to absorb the illumination, rather than reflect it. “Let’s leave it up to chance, shall we? If the coin is heads when it hits the table I’ll join you. If it’s tails, well… I disappear into the night and turn up like a bad penny when you least expect it.” 

 

“For God’s sake, man. Can’t you make a proper decision for once in your life?” 

 

There was a hint of melancholy underpinning Ethan’s reply. “I did, Rupert. I made my choice a long time ago.” 

 

The coin made a pinging noise as he flicked it into the air, arcing through trails of smoke and particles of dust that had existed on earth since time immemorial. He wasn’t sure if it was Chaos or magic or the uneven pub foundation, but Ethan smiled as the coin arced down and landed with a clinking splash in the bottom of Rupert Giles’ nearly empty glass of Scotch. 

 

“Tails it is! Oh well, bad luck.” Ethan stood, brushing his palms against each other in a gesture of absolution. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around.” 

 

He had taken barely two steps when he heard the voice. 

 

“Not so fast.” 

 

Ethan turned his head, eyes narrowing as he watched Giles gingerly lift the tumbler, swirling the contents before swiftly downing the remaining liquid. In a deft motion which hinted much about the Watcher’s diverse skill set, he flipped the glass upside down and slammed it down on the table. The pound coin shared a brief and tantalizing moment of liquid suction with the inverted bottom of the glass before dropping neatly onto the weathered wooden surface, heads up. 

 

Snorting, Ethan narrowed his eyes. “I believe they call that cheating.” 

 

“You chose the rules, not me. The coin was heads up when it reached the table.” 

 

There was a drawn out moment of eye contact, and Ethan was struck by a controlled wildness in his companion’s gaze. Perhaps the other man had been the real agent of Chaos all along, merely waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed. 

 

“Well then. You’d best get the next round in. I’m quite sure my contract will include a generous food and beverage allowance.” 

 

A small smile quirked on Rupert Giles’ face. “I wouldn’t be so certain, if I were you.” 

 

Ethan Rayne made a grandiose sweeping gesture with his right arm, encompassing the dilapidated and nearly empty front room of the aptly named World’s End pub.

 

“I never am, old man. And look where it’s got me so far.” 


End file.
